The Mammoth Book of the Best New Erotica Page 40

  They’d kiss, they’d suck nipples, they’d lick clits, they’d come. Eddy was the easiest, the quickest to scream, shout, with Daisy sometime thereafter. It would be wonderful; and then they’d do it the next morning, the next afternoon, the next night.

  The table was green felt, a deep verdant green – like the Amazon must look from high above. An impenetrable green. Just a game?

  “Come on, Eddy,” Daisy said with firm exhaustion, determined tones in her voice. “Come on.”

  But this wasn’t about winning and losing. It was Eddy’s way, her real passion; the green of the felt was the colour of her special lust. Her lust to be the best, to be better than anyone. “Go back to the room, Daisy. I have a game to play.” Then, not waiting to see if her lover had left, she turned to Fats and added in level tones: “Let’s play some pool.”

  Eddy lost the next game, and the one after that, but the pain of losing wasn’t there. Instead she was building up speed, accelerating to where Fats was steadily cruising. She wasn’t there, not yet, but she could feel the groove, and knew that catching it was just a matter of time.

  She won the next game, but like the loss, the win wasn’t hot. Eddy wasn’t there yet, not yet.

  After she won the next game and the last ball sank home in its pocket, she knew she had the edge. She could taste it, she could hear the prolonged low note in her ears, there was a new clarity to everything. She almost put her cue away, almost shook Fats’s hand and walked out. She knew she had it, and she knew she’d win every game. The edge was there.

  But she didn’t leave. Just knowing she had it wasn’t enough. She won the next three games; with each sinking ball her game grew clearer and more perfect until the cue was more than just an extension of her body, it was an extension of her will, a part of her mind. It was fifteen to twelve.

  The sun had set a long time ago, and would rise soon. Time had become nothing but a way to measure the game. That she’d played through the whole night, that she hadn’t slept or eaten in over twelve hours, meant nothing. Only the game mattered.

  It was good. It was very, very good.

  Suddenly Fats’s voice broke loudly through the edge to reach Eddy: “That’s it, Eddy. You’ve won, you’ve beaten me.”

  Eddy blinked away the glamour, saw Fats for what seemed like the first time. The gleam was gone from her gold tooth; her hands were bilious green from the velvet and the chalk, her skin was gleaming with sweat, and her shirt was sticking to her stomach and tits.

  Eddy smiled, wide and true, and shook her damp hand. “Thanks for the game,” she said.

  “Thank you, Eddy,” Fats said. “You play a damned good game of pool.”

  Which Eddy knew meant she was the best. The best there was.

  Daisy didn’t know the girl’s name and didn’t care. All she did care about was that the girl was there in the bed.

  She was fresh, maybe too young, but eager and willing. They’d started flirting earlier in the night, just an hour after Daisy left the pool hall. She was behind the counter in a place called, simply, Eats. Young, plump – soft skin billowy and yielding under Daisy’s fingers – but best of all willing. It just wouldn’t do, to have such a perfect opportunity and have no one who wanted to play with her.

  The girl had actually blushed when Daisy had taken her coat, hanging it behind the hotel room door: “You’re so gorgeous. I wanted to kiss you the instant I set eyes on you.”

  Then Daisy did, and the girl’s blush deepened even more. “T-thank you,” she’d stammered gently when the kiss ended. Was it for the compliment or the touch of her lips? Daisy didn’t know what the girl was thanking her for.

  It didn’t take long. Her dress buttoned up the back, easy pickings. As they sat on the too-soft hotel bed, kissing meekly and then with growing passion, Daisy’s knowledgeable fingers neatly popped one, two, three, then all of the girl’s buttons.

  Weakly protesting, she’d tried to hold the dress together, only giving Daisy an excuse to tickle and nibble her mercilessly. When the tears had stopped and the laughter had died down the girl was in her bra and panties. Daisy looked at her for a long moment, savouring her plumpness: the way her breasts pushed up and around the confining bra, the twin little mounds of her nipples, the scratchy hairs peering around the elastic of her everyday panties, her gentle little swell of belly. “Tasty,” she’d mumbled as she took the nameless girl in her arms, and kissed her long and deep as her fingers explored the seams of those panties.

  Wet – a marvellously pure wetness greeted her hunting fingers. A wetness of legend, a hungry virgin’s kind of wetness. Looking the girl in the eyes, she withdrew her hand to taste and murmur delighted sounds at the girl’s savoury cunt. Then she pushed her back onto the bed, kneeled between her legs, gently pulled aside her so-wet panties and kissed, then licked her into a quick, shuddering orgasm – one of many.

  The girl was young, juicy, and naive. When it was time for her to return the favour her tongue slipped and missed, her fingers gripped Daisy’s thighs too tight, and her thumb and forefinger were too meek with Daisy’s nipples. When Daisy did come, it was more from her own quick fingers showing the way than from the girl’s timid explorations of Daisy’s body. Still, it was a good come. But simply coming wasn’t what made Daisy smile like a kitten that feasted on cream.

  “I should be going,” she said as Daisy let her hands roam over her luscious body. When Daisy found a plump nipple and gently teased it into rubber hardness she whistled softly in excitement. “Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

  “Yes,” Daisy said, dropping her mouth to the nipple, sucking and nibbling it into even further firmness. “I do.”

  “What if she comes back?” the girl said with sudden fear.

  “Maybe she will, maybe she won’t – not for a while yet anyway. Not if I played it well, that is.”

  “I should still go,” the girl said, but Daisy pushed her back on the bed, resting a firm hand on her still wet cunt.

  “Stay. I want to come again, and I want to make you come again, too.” Daisy bent down to part her fat labia and lick – once, very fast – making the girl whistle with a quick intake of breath. “I think I played it perfectly well; just the right amount of tantrum, the right amount of ego stroke. No, she won’t be back till dawn, at least. She won’t be back till she sweeps the table. We’ve got hours.”

  “I don’t . . . understand,” the girl tried to say as Daisy licked her harder, longer, circling the throbbing bead of her clit.

  “My Eddy has her game, and I have mine. And mine is to keep her busy while I fuck you at least five more times. Eddy’s good,” Daisy said with a wicked smile as she absently rubbed the girl’s hard clit, “but I’m the best there is.”

  The End of Daphne Greenwood’s Travel Career

  Tara Alton

  It started with the pen. I wouldn’t call it a stupendously fancy pen, but rather a clumsy, space-aged-like missile from a hotel vendor visit, where sales people fob off cheap little gifts so you’ll book them. If you click the pen, different chain names spin around in a tiny display on the barrel. It belonged to my team leader, Pam. She loved that pen. Pam also loved to think she was hot shit because she had a degree in travel from a university, while the rest of us have travel school certificates under our belts. I would say she’s not a team leader because of this. She’s a team leader because she doesn’t mind sticking her head up our boss’s ass.

  What have I done with this pen? I’ve moved it a few times so she had to look for it, stuck it in my mouth, licked it, doodled penises with it and took it into the bathroom. Why? Let’s just say I had sexual relations with it. I know it wasn’t consensual, but who is the pen going to tell? Besides the little bugger was so uptight. I didn’t even come. Still, I got some satisfaction planting it back on Pam’s desk, watching her face when she realized it was sticky and trying to figure out what it was before she wiped it with one of those antibacterial wipes for anal retentives.

  Pam left me a chasti
sing note on my desk about someone whom I like to call Passenger Thirteen. Why Thirteen? I like to think that this row of seats on an airplane is the travel agent’s row of hell. If a passenger pisses me off, I put him in that row. Well, this guy really yanked me around over a trip to Des Moines, so every time since I’ve tried to deposit him there. Apparently, he wasn’t too happy about being in a middle seat again either, but it wasn’t my fault since the rest of the seats were under airport control. Well, they weren’t, but we won’t tell, will we?

  I crumpled up Pam’s note, tossed it in the trash and picked up my book. Between calls, management doesn’t care what we do as long as we are ready to take a call. Some girls knit. Some read fashion magazines. Some write bills or clip coupons. I read porn. Not outright crotch-shot magazines, but rather anthologies of porn pretending to be erotica, but there are still a lot of muffs and cocks bouncing around, only in a more civilized manner.

  Reading about a girl who was having an erotic thrill ride on a cable car in San Francisco, I started to get all squirmy. I thought I might have to go to the bathroom to relieve myself in that special way, when Passenger Thirteen rings in. On and on he went about being in the middle seat again. It’s uncomfortable, blah blah blah. Well you shouldn’t have been such an ass to me about Des Moines, I wanted to tell him. My gaze swept back to the open page of my book. He was doing what to her? Could I slip a finger under my skirt?

  Looking up, I realized Pam had on her headset and her eyes were on me. She was monitoring me, the bitch.

  “I’ll definitely try for the aisle seat next time,” I said to him. “I’ll do that. I will.”

  The operative word there was try.

  The moment I hung up, Pam put down her headset and wrote something down. That night, I threw her pen away.

  The next day, I watched her look for her pen, and I felt the thrill of a job well done. I had wrapped it in several layers of toilet paper and stuffed it in the sanitary disposal bin in the bathroom. It was long gone.

  Actually, I was feeling quite good over all because I forgot to wear underwear, and the seam of my tights was riding up into my crotch.

  Suddenly, Miranda, Pam’s boss, strode over to me. I thought she was going to say something about the pen, and I quickly concocted several stories about where I saw Pam with it last, but instead she hauled me into her office and chastised me about my clothing.

  Apparently I’d forgotten it was a client walk through today, and I’d worn a short corduroy skirt, a slightly ratty, white cotton blouse and my regulation black tights, instead of business attire, which meant a suit. After giving me a long lecture on the difference between business and business-casual, she released me to my desk.

  Feeling like my neck had been whiplashed from nodding to convince her I was listening when I really wasn’t, I tossed myself down on my seat. Oh great. Now my keyboard tray was stuck. I couldn’t pull it out to do my travel agent duties. I called the maintenance man, Ayad. A lot of girls thought he was thick because of the language barrier, but I thought he was adorable.

  Moments later, he was under my desk, fiddling with my tray. I kept checking him out. Was it warm in here?

  “Do you want to know why I wear dark tights all the time?” I asked him.

  He looked up at me. I tried not to imagine him giving me that look between my legs in the bedroom.

  “Tattoos. I have tattoos of flowers on my legs,” I said.

  He paused, a blank look on his face. Did he even know what a tattoo was? How could I explain it?

  “Do you want to see what I’m reading?” I asked him instead and showed him my book. He flipped through the pages. Now, I got a reaction out of him. He raised an eyebrow.

  “You read this at work?” he asked.

  I nodded, happily. He shook his head, handed me back the book and checked the batteries on his cordless drill. Surely what I had to say was more interesting than that piece of cheap plastic crap.

  “I’ll let you in on a secret,” I said in a low voice. “I’m not wearing panties.”

  Slowly, I opened my legs. He looked.

  “You’re still wearing something over your legs,” he said.

  “But nothing underneath. Use your imagination.”

  He shrugged and peered in closer. Just when I thought I had him, Miranda approached us. I clapped shut my legs.

  “The clients are walking through,” she said. “You can either put this on or you can go wait in ticketing.”

  She held up the cast-off sweater from the closet. No one knew who it belonged to. It had been in there for ever, and for good reason with its light blue knit and ruffled collar.

  I wasn’t wearing that sweater, so I chose ticketing, a cave of a room where underpaid employees who got bad grades in travel school shuffled ticket stock together. Pam breezed by with a smirk at me.

  That bitch. I had to do something else to get her back. Plus, Miranda was on my shit list as well because she told ticketing I could help them for a half-hour if I showed up. I wasn’t about to stamp parking coupons with our logo as instructed by a timid girl with a set of chin whiskers, so I set out to find a suitable box for my next project.

  An empty staple box became my voodoo box. I drew hex signs all over it with a black magic marker, and by the end of the day, I had acquired an earring of Miranda’s and a miniature green frog eraser off Pam’s desk. I loved the way they rattled inside it, sort of like little bones.

  The next day, I decided to add someone else to my voodoo box. Crystal. She had been sexually harassing me for the longest time, and I was finally fed up. You wouldn’t believe the things she said to me, like: I love it when you wear purple. I like it when your hair is all wild like that.

  Women don’t say things like that to one another. They say “cute skirt” or “nice blouse”. Also, she’s always brushing up against me or stroking my arm. I’ve tried to put her off by talking about how much I like men whenever I’m near her, but it’s not working. The last time, I told her how much bone I had in me that weekend, but she said all I needed to do was to make love to a woman.

  I was in the lunch room, chewing on a hangnail in front of the vending machine as I contemplated what I should steal from her desk for my voodoo box, when she made an appearance. Ayad came in as well to stuff his lunch in the fridge.

  Crystal leered at the candy bars.

  “You wouldn’t believe how much I like eating boxes of goodies,” she said. “Especially a mound.”

  I rolled my eyes and let out a deep breath.

  “Listen, I like guys,” I said. “I like a good, hard cock, and you don’t have one. Stop hitting on me, or I’ll report you for sexual harassment.”

  With that said, I bought a package of old-fashioned caramel creams, shot Ayad a look, who had his eyebrow raised at me once more and flounced back to my desk.

  She must have told her little group of friends what I said because for the rest of the day they all kept giving me dirty looks. Give me a break. I saw them waiting for me in the hallway after work, like they were in Junior High, waiting to beat me up. Little did they know I had a secret weapon. The fish eye. Yeah, I got some crazy genes in my gene pool. My mom, for example, was truly nuts.

  I whipped it out, glared at them, and strode past them like shit wouldn’t even stink on me. They didn’t say a word.

  The next morning, no one was waiting for me in the hallway, but my water cup looked odd. It was one of those plastic tumblers you get at the dollar store, but the water inside it had a yellowish tint. I smelled it and took it straight to Miranda.

  “Someone pissed in my cup,” I said.

  She smelled it.

  “Probably the cleaning people,” she said, handing it back.

  I looked at her, waiting for her to say something else, show some indignation at this appalling act, but she acted like the matter was already closed.

  Disgusted, I went to the sink to pour it out when Ayad came by.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  �
�I’m being sexually harassed by Crystal, and someone pissed in my water cup,” I said.

  I tossed the cup in the trash.

  “I’m pretty sure she did it,” I said.

  I realized he wasn’t making eye contact. Rather, he was looking down at my tights.

  “How is your drawer?” he asked.

  “It’s still sticking,” I said. “You never did finish fixing it.”

  He followed me back to my desk. It was like he had never left. As he adjusted the screws, I kicked off my shoes and rubbed my foot slowly up his leg. I dug my toes in his crotch and wiggled them around. Then I pushed the ball of my foot up his chest where he took my foot in his hands and bit my big toe. He ripped the seam, his tongue touching flesh. I nearly fell off my chair.

  Miranda stopped by my desk. Thank God she could only see his legs and tool box.

  “There are calls on hold,” she said. “Can this wait?”

  Once more abandoned to a sticky drawer and a throbbing mound, I watched him gather up his tools and leave. Reluctantly, I put on my headset, feeling buzzed from the flirting. Across the office, I realized Crystal was watching me. Her hunger for me simmered in her eyes. Why shouldn’t she want me? I was hot stuff.

  I should make love to a woman.

  I always felt bad about the austerity of my desk when everyone else had their trophy photos all over the place because of this innate need to prove to the world they are loved. Finally, I had a photograph to bring in to work. Last night, I visited my childhood friend who happens to be a stripper. One of her friends gave me a lap dance and we took a picture.

  I showed it to Crystal, who at first looked so pleased I had walked over to her and then so sheet-white at what she saw. I don’t know why. Everything was covered. My hands were on my pretend girlfriend’s thighs, her tits in my face, but that was it. Like a proud mother of a freakish sense of justice, I displayed the photo on my desk.

  Word of it zipped around the office like a plague. It took no time at all for Miranda to stomp over.

  “Take it down,” she ordered.

  I wrested up an expression of mock indignation.